


i need somebody to remember my name

by DedeDrabbles



Category: Cyberpunk & Cyberpunk 2020 (Roleplaying Games), Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)
Genre: Arasaka - Freeform, Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - Cyberpunk2077, Child Abuse, Child Soldiers, Cyberpsychosis, Dehumanization, Dystopia, F/M, MAX-TAC, Militech, Multi, Origin Story, Other, Parent-Child Relationship, corpo scumbags being corpo scumbags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:00:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25193557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DedeDrabbles/pseuds/DedeDrabbles
Summary: N̶o̶m̶a̶d̶ ̶S̶t̶r̶e̶e̶t̶ ̶K̶i̶d̶ ̶C̶o̶p̶o̶r̶a̶t̶e̶MaxTacThe birth of V.
Relationships: Arthur Jenkins/Female V (Cyberpunk 2077), Arthur Jenkins/V (Cyberpunk 2077), Mr. Jenkins/Female V (Cyberpunk 2077), Mr. Jenkins/V (Cyberpunk 2077)
Kudos: 36





	1. just how many stars will i need to hang around me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some backstory for my particular V. i don't think anyone's going to be particularly interested in this, but the thing is i wrote it anyway so... Your Problem Now >:)
> 
> while this technically comes first in my V's timeline, reading these chatpers is not required for reading the series. beware, though, there may be some confusion.
> 
> translations for the spanish (or what they're SUPPOSED to be saying, in case i butchered it) are highlighted next to the paragraph.

Roxanne keeps her head tall.

In a city so infamous for its crime rate, perhaps that's not always the wisest of decisions, but Roxanne does so because she specifically lives in the suburbs of Santo Domingo; a place where that crime rate breeds. Santo Domingo was born on the back of corruption, mobsters building her neighborhood with corpo's and booster gangs tearing it apart. When the sun leaves, security goes with it, no one there to save her if she were to fall in the shadows.

So, she keeps her head high and carries herself with purpose. She doesn't make herself look small or weak, she doesn't falter when she moves, she doesn't linger too long. She saves herself, as her parents have taught her.

_"¿De dónde sacaste esa pistola?" Where did you get that gun?!_

But maybe she doesn't always do it in the way they want.

"Don't think I won't be calling _your_ father either, Rigel!" her father shouts down at her partner in crime as he wrenches Roxanne out of her beat-up golf-cart; a feeling she's far familiar with, which is why she finds it easy to tug back rebelliously. It never tires him out like she hopes, though, only making his grip more merciless, dragging her away.

Rigel, being just as sixteen and powerless to her parents, has no rebuttal. Instead, she drives away, leaving Roxanne to her devices. Sometimes she wishes Rigel would have more _bite_ , would defend her against punishment more, would take a little of the blame; she's more often than not the mastermind, after all.

But Roxanne isn't a _pussy_ or a _crybaby_ , so.

"Niña irrespetuosa... _¡Y usted!_ ¡Tu madre y yo no criamos a un criminal! ¡¿Qué sucede contigo?! ¿No tienes concepto de trabajo étnico?" Disrespectful child... _And you!_ Your mother and I didn't raise a criminal! What's wrong with you?! Do you have no concept of work ethnic?!

"Era solo una tienda de dulces," she groans, still trying to pry her dad's squeezing grip from her bicep. "Necesitamos dinero, ¿verdad? Definitivamente más que ese gordo cajero." It was just a candy store. We need money, right? Definitely more than that fat cashier.

"Una tienda de golosinas. ¡Que conveniente!" he scoffs, turning on her in the middle of the front yard. "¿Por qué no vacías tus bolsillos?" A candy store. How convenient! Why don't you empty your pockets?

Her argument dies in her throat, angry.

She can envision the neighbors peeking from their windows. She can hear the gossip they'll tell of her. Just past her father, she catches sight of her doe-eyed brother, Augustin. Two years her junior, probably having waited for her return, standing in the space of their half-opened door.

Roxanne looks away from her dad, tears pricking her eyes, knowing she's being reduced to public humiliation.

His grip finally frees her arm, but only to grasp her jacket and shake it out, cigarettes and chocolate bars falling from its pockets.

"¿Te crees una especie de Robin Hood? ¿Qué es todo esto entonces?" he scolds, pointing down at her shame. "T'ch. No seas egoísta y luego finge que eres desinteresado. _Vergonzoso._ " You think you're a kind of Robin Hood? What's all this then? T'ch. Don't act selfish and then pretend you're selfless. _Shameful_.

Roxanne, stubbornly, remains quiet.

...Because so what if she is? So what if she isn't entirely charitable? So what if she wants to benefit _herself_ sometimes? Everyone else does it, and then some. The very greats of Night City steal, and control, and _murder_ , and it works out just great for them; even when they're hated, they’re all the more loved for it. They die, _being_ someone.

"Ellas son solo dulces." They are just candy.

"¿Entonces robas? Hm? Eres demasiado vago para ganar algo en la vida, ¿es eso lo que estás diciendo? ¿Es así como piensas de esta familia?" So you steal? Hm? You are too lazy to earn anything in life, is that what you're saying? Is that how you think of this family?

But she's a poor, underprivileged, piece-of-shit _nobody._ She doesn't get to act out in hopes of being more. All her suffrage, and she doesn't get anything for it, not even a treat.

"No..."

"Entonces suficiente! ¡Le devolverá este dinero al Sr. Sánchez por la mañana!" Dad finalizes, her punishment set in stone as he begins again his drag to the front door. "Y no quiero que vuelvas a salir con ese matón nunca más..."Then enough! You're returning this money to Mr. Sanchez in the morning! And I don't want you to date that thug ever again...

He stops short as he reaches their home, Augustin looking worried.

There, on the door, a note is pinned.

**EVICTION NOTICE.**

* * *

They come every week, five times a week.

"This is my _home_. You can't just pave it over, for- for-"

"For business, Mr. Garcia," the corpo scumbag insists, once again. She hates how stoic he is in the face of her father's outrage, like this is just another Thursday for him.

Her mother mumbles from the couch they're sitting on, both her and Roxanne distracting a seven-year old twin each. "Como si necesitaras más torres de marfil..." As if you need more ivory towers...

"I'm sorry? I didn't _quite_ catch that."

"Please, can't you just... _Leave us alone?_ We have nowhere else," Her father is usually a kind, calm, gentle man - sometimes to a _fault_. Even though he doesn't want to act out in front of her - or in front of this 'agent', no doubt to keep himself from being misrepresented - Roxanne can see her father's composure fraying at the edges. She almost wishes he'd let himself lose it, just to finally scare the man away. "We're not your tenants, alright? You have no warrant to evict us. I just... You can't expect us to put ourselves out on the street, all for your place of work."

"Your financial situation is entirely your problem, sir," the other man quickly replies, not a shred of sympathy or compromise in his little peanut brain. A polite way of saying 'but can't I?' "The corp has bought this land for reconstruction. We legally own it. So, while you're correct in saying you're not tenants, the law defines you as _squatters._ "

"There's _no way_ that's actually legal. Not only did I not sell my house to you, you - you can't criminalize us for taking up a space _before_ you owned it."

The bodyguard beside him stops short of snorting.

As if the legality of it all actually matters, much less the fairness.

"Maybe not. But you're taking up space we own _right_ _now_ ," he says. "We give you the rest of the month to find an alternative living situation and be gone. Otherwise, Mr. Garcia, I'm afraid I'll have no choice but to press charges."

* * *

When they said a month, they _really_ meant effective immediately.

It starts with a stubborn increase in eviction notices. Sign among sign among sign, with varying degrees of thinly veiled legal threats, all creating a pile on a counter somewhere. More visits, demanding updates on their progress in moving, but providing no cheaper solutions. There’s many days of debate about what the law is and what their rights are, her parents not being educated the same way an attorney would be, but trusting that it'll find ways to trick them.

Next come the bulldozer's that almost crush her house with everyone inside, driven by meathead workers that play stupid and blame it on her family, insisting that they should've left by now. It takes _hours_ of arguing, phone calls confirming their deadline, and using their bodies as human shields to get them to leave.

Next come the gangs.

At the cry of gunshots, Roxanne gathers her siblings and hides with them in her room. She has to cover Camilia and Josephina's mouths as they sob, not understanding what's happening, but experiencing the very real fear of losing their parents in that moment. How the following silence isn't comforting. How they spend a quiet, scared moment, wondering if their attackers are coming for them next.

They aren't. Their parents reined victorious, but - Their mother, having been outside during the random assault, gets the brunt of it. She comes in bloodied, _melting_ , smelling of burning flesh. Acid has rendered the left half of her face as forever distorted in an ugly, bubbling scar, her ear and eye obliterated.

Roxanne is certain that those corpo's hired someone to exterminate them - ' _the problem_ ' in their way - but she can't prove it. Her father quiets her theories.

When the psychosuit comes around again, he's unbothered by her mother’s new disfigurement, like it's another Thursday for him. "How goes the house-hunting?"

Roxanne is helpless to her family being slowly, agonizingly whittled down.

"How much will it cost?"

"Hm?"

"To buy the land back from you," her father asks, broken. "How much will it cost?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( EDIT: now that the game has come out, edited some small stuff to fit the timeline better. )


	2. after all that i can do for them is done

Roxanne keeps her head tall.

In a city so infamous for its crime rate, perhaps that's not always the wisest of decisions, but Roxanne does so because she specifically lives in the suburbs of Santo Domingo; a place where that crime rate breeds. Santo Domingo was born on the back of corruption, mobsters building her neighborhood with corpo's and boostergangs tearing it apart. When the sun leaves, security goes with it, no one there to save her if she were to fall in the shadows.

So, she saves herself, as her parents have taught her.

"Don't be such a _pussy_ , Roxy."

But she doesn't do it the way they want. No, what they mean is that she should keep her head _down_. Stay out of the way. Don't make a target of herself. Don't act brave.

Rigel is brave enough for both of them, traversing Blood Razors' territory, in the Combat Zone, _at night_ , just to get a chance to bet on Razorball. For once, it's Roxanne's idea. A last-ditch effort. Because, she doesn't care _what_ her dad thinks, the cost of their shabby home is too _asinine_ to acquire honestly.

"I'm not a _pussy_ ," Roxanne argues as they pass a stray brawl where skin is _definitely_ breaking, because a pussy wouldn't have followed Rigel as far as she has, a pussy wouldn't have came up with this plan, a pussy wouldn't have been willing to sink this deep into the metal jungle in the name of her family. "I just want to come out alive, alright?"

Even now, walking upon the crusty dried blood that's made old friends with the floor, Roxanne refuses to show her underbelly for these people. She's scared, but she _won't_ be small.

Doesn't mean she has to antagonize them either, counting the number of pocketed guns and knives she see's. She doesn't trust her partner to share the sentiment. "We're going to be _fine_."

"You think we look - you know... like actual adults?"

"T'ch. We're _sixteen_ , loser. We _are_ actual adults."

As she pulls her hoodie tighter, Roxanne reminds herself to keep her head high and eyes forward. "I guess."

When they reach the betting venue, handing over their fake ID's and very real eddies they don't have the right to bet, she holds her breath so as to not flinch.

How Rigel is so confident in the heavily tattooed face of this Blood Razor member, with his glowing red scrutiny, she'll never tell.

"You guys are twenty?"

Hands on her hips and rocking on her heel's, Roxanne's gut clenches at how _haughty_ Rigel dares to be. " _I'm_ twenty one."

"Uh huh," he affirms, unconvinced. 'Actual adults', her _ass_. "You're in your own gang?"

"Master's to _none_."

"Mmhm... And it's just you two?"

_Fuck._

Rigel thankfully has the forthright to not reveal that they're alone, Roxanne ignoring the hammering of her heart. "Just us two _betting_. The other members are waiting on us, so... _chop chop_."

"I don't think so," he _tsk's_ still. "This ain't a goddamn _daycare_. Why don't you do yourselves a favor and go home to mommy - "

"What's it matter where the money comes from?"

It comes out of _Roxanne's_ mouth, releasing her breath, because going home now isn't an option if it means she'll _have_ no home. The Blood Razor's attention whips to her, saying nothing, but staring _hard_.

"...Eddies are eddies, and you're a real tough guy, yeah? You've _killed_ for way less," she goes on, keeping his gaze, unable to stop now. "What do you care if you're stealing candy from a couple of babies?"

In the corner of her eye, she can see Rigels embarrassed indignation at being reduced to a _baby_ , but Roxanne pointedly ignores it in favor of staring down the more ruthless of the three of them. He spends a long time silent, leaving her in suspense.

"...Alright. Sure. But careful not to lose your lunch," Before revealing rotten teeth in a cruel smile. "You're playing with the big boys now, kid."

* * *

_This place fucking reeks_ , Roxanne thinks as she watches a player dump the brains of another, splattering it thickly - grossly - across the ring. Contestants easily skate, slip, and smear over the resulting pool of blood and chunks, spreading it. Is it any wonder the entire place smells like death?

She really _is_ struggling not to hurl. Roxanne's desensitized to a certain degree of violence - has passed her share of stray bodies or two, in her life - but this... _goring_ is excessive. Rigel doesn't seem quite as effected though, whooping and hollering along the rest of the crowd, so she keeps it to herself.

It's been back and forth for a while now, and each player that falls leans more towards _her_ team, keeping Roxanne from truly getting into it with all the suspense. Rigel rises out of her seat when another one dares to die in a violent mess, outraged. " _Where are ya'll's fuckin' heads at?! Goddamnit!"_

Even as the side they've bet on has become far outnumbered, Roxanne holds onto the hope that it's not over yet, shrugging away the dredges of doubt. It's not impossible to win. _Unlikely_ , but not impossible, not just yet. If they just even the score, and work by the skin of their teeth, they can -

Amidst the attention of that previous death, behold a player that does just that, taking the advantage to make a goal.

Roxanne's gaze quickly darts up. The score is evened.

They have no more sit-in's, but they're close to winning.

For a moment, Roxanne can ignore the disgust in favor of the excitement of sport, watching one of their remaining headliners dart back for the ball. They narrowly avoid backlash, taking the new attention in stride, before getting the upper hand back with ease. Rigel shakes her shoulder - With a wet _thwack_ , they smash the ball _through_ an opposing teammates head, right to another score!

 _They have the upper hand_ , Roxanne dares to grin to herself, literally on the edge of her seat as their golden hero yet again takes back the ball. Tension builds inside her. _Just one more -_

A pickax meets their brain, all too soon.

Roxanne stares on in not-quite-registered horror, still smiling, like the _stupid piece-of-shit_ kid she is. Dread dawns in slow motion. That was their last shot.

No. This isn't fair.

" _WHAAAT?! Come the fuck on!_ " Rigel screams over the roar of cheering and laughter, the rise to Roxanne's drop as she watches the player crumble like a broken toy. They're down to two players, now clearly playing footsy with the competition, fluttering around for their own survival rather than the win. "Get your ass in there, cowards! _God!_ "

They're going to lose.

This isn't fair.

Roxanne will have lost her family a ton of money.

_This isn't fair._

"Roxy? What the hell are you doing?"

It's something like instinct, or possession, or _crazy_ , how numb she feels as she stands and begins crawling over the seats, ignoring the shouts of indignation as she wades towards the rink.

She only hears Rigel follow distantly, giving a rare moment of approval, but - for once - Roxanne can't find it within herself to _fucking care_. "Oh my God, you absolute madman. You're a fucking genius!"

She doesn't have a real plan - all she can zone in on is the stench of blood growing stronger as she closes in on her destination. Some people think the ones that have nothing to lose are the ones to look out for. Long-time friends with suffering, too cynical to hope better of others or themselves, all things merciless and unafraid.

Yet, it's the _frightened_ dog that bites.

It's _because_ Roxanne has so much to lose that she's willing to stoop to some levels. There's _danger_ in her desperation.

She'll win _herself_ if she has to.

* * *

She's still kind of numb when the police come.

When she's in the back of a cop car, covered in blood she's not quite sure is hers or not, reality only just begins settling back in.

When she's dropped off at her families, a quiet kind of panic sets in. She's _so_ dead. Moreover, her _family_ is so dead.

"It's only because of _your_ daughter that my Rigel was involved in this at all! Look at her!" Rigel's father shouts over Roxanne's mother, gesturing to her friend, also bloodied and caught with her hand in the cookie jar. "You think she would do this?! Rigel hasn't hurt anyone in her life!"

That's a _lie_ , but Roxanne can't hope to call her out on it without risking their friendship. Her mom does so, in her place. " _Please!_ I can't deny that Roxanne goes along with her, but Rigel is _always_ the mastermind! At least admit that she's a bad influence!"

"Like hell! It was _your_ family’s money that _your_ daughter lost on _gambling!_ How dare you say Rigel has anything to do with it?!"

Her father sighs, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion, and Roxanne can feel the _broken_ _shame_ of having caused that. He's _right._ Inherently, being caught has lost her family a good chunk of much-needed money, since a winner was never called. All those eddies lost to some police force as 'evidence' or some lucky choomba. Roxanne doesn't know how her dad can stomach defending her right now, when she feels so sick with _herself_. "Listen, in the end, _it doesn't matter_. Both our children are at fault in their own ways. But I have to deal with the repercussions of this - "

"Are you kidding me - _no!_ I won't take that! Your damn kid forced mine into this dangerous scheme, and there's consequences to that, y'here?" Rigel's father insists, before turning to her. "Tell them, Rigel! How did you end up in that rink?"

A long silent drifts, all ear's flexing to listen.

Roxanne tries not to look too helpless, but meets her friends eyes pleadingly anyway. This is her moment. Rigel should have more bite, should defend her against this punishment, should take a little of the blame. At any other given moment in their lives, Roxanne hasn't asked that of her, but now? Now, she needs her to. This may have been her idea, but Rigel wasn't _forced_ into anything.

"...She put a gun to my head!"

Instead, Roxanne comes to learn how incredibly cruel children can be.

She can only watch on in dumb shock as her longtime friend begins to fake tears, lying through her teeth to save her own ass.

All their years of friendship.

All the things they've shared together.

All the things she's _done_ for her.

All her time, and emotion, and effort spent on this other girl - it doesn't mean _shit_ to her. There's not a single shred of empathy that Rigel has for Roxanne as she throws her under the bus. "She - She told me she'd shoot me if I-I didn't go along with it! I-I was just so scared! Oh my _God_ , daddy, I thought I'd never see you again!"

Far worse, is how her parents react.

Whoever said the disappointment of a father was the worst feeling in the world was dead wrong.

The worst feeling is the silent _fear_ in her mom and dad's eyes when they look back at Roxanne. The way they believe this other child, whom they don't even like, before their own. The _shock_ they have, at raising such a monster, like she's dangerous.

Life is so unfair.

All she wanted was to save them from that.

* * *

Her father losing his job is the final nail in the coffin.

" _Please_ , just let me find a new job, and - "

"Mr. Garcia, we've given you time to improve your situation, and it seems it's only gotten _worse_ ," The corpo agent says on his next visits, uncaring that it was _his_ doing that her father lost his job, scooping up more land for his greedy enlargement. It was done on _purpose_ , she'd bet. Not that her opinion is valued much, these days, what with being such a _danger to society_. "If you're no longer able to pay us, you are taking up our space."

"There _has_ to be some way we can negotiate this."

"We're well past that. You have 24 hours to - "

" _Take my eldest._ "

She's not sure what she was expecting. She's not sure if she's surprised. Kind of?

She _is_ sure that she's hurt by it; has she always been easy to give away, or was this something that's grown with the lies Rigel tells?

"...Oh? That's an interesting proposal."

"She - She can work off the rest of the debt. _Para nuestra familia,_ " he reasons, stressing her duty to her family. Roxanne has always been the eldest, and has always been _the female_ , so by birthright she's inherited some duty to be the _second mom_. To be smarter. To be responsible. To take on their _burden's_. Looking at her siblings, she can't deny that she loves them. So, she's tries her best to take that duty on, as her parents have taught her. "Besides, with all the trouble she's been getting into..."

But she doesn't do it the way they want.

"...Perhaps this will be good for her."

Not in a way that's selfless.

When they take her away, she soaks in the last view of her August, Camilia, and Josephina, their wide eyes wondering when she'll be back.


	3. i gave too much of my heart tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: Child Abuse + Mention of a forced hysterectomy. Child abuse is in present tense, and may be upsetting. Hysterectomy is in past tense, with no explicit descriptions.

They respond to her questions with nothing.

They rob her of her sight when they move.

When she's granted it back, she finds that they've taken her to a place of dark metal mazes, long winding hallways and elevators, and tight security. Every wall is a fortress of its own. Every nook and cranny require a series of exclusive codes. Nobody gets in or out, including the very air, reeking of oil like it's long forgotten what being _fresh_ is.

Roxanne always wondered why she never met a MAX-TAC agent on the outside, out of uniform.

As it turns out, there's no such thing.

The first thing she does when they sit her down, prepping her for her new life, is cry.

Then continues crying, because she feels _stupid_ about it, watching herself blubber in a chair while her locks are shaved away. It's only hair, right? It may take a long time with it being natural, but once she's done with work, she can grow it back out. _Don't be such a_ pussy _, Roxy._

But it's not only hair. The years of effort into getting it to this length. The removal of her femininity. The taking away of her identity. Wiping away all distinction of _Roxanne_ until it's a blank slate, because it's _unimportant_ to the world. Who she is _nothing_ , to _nobody_. An inconvenience, even, existing and being a person. What matters is her _body_ , and how it can be used for other people’s purposes. It's not just the hair, it's the snatching and ripping up of everything that's _her’s._

They don't have the right.

Roxanne decides it will be the last she ever cries.

When they drag her away to be sliced up into a new body, she replaces it with ire instead, kicking and screaming.

She knows it's futile.

But still, she has to. If she's nothing to nobody else, then she'll belong to only _herself_ now.

* * *

It's a long year of ripping things out of her to put newer, _weaponized_ versions back in, all following with 'recuperation periods' - or rather, 'old men waiting for her body to keel over'. First it was the tracker, their eyes always on her, every breathing moment monitored. Then, she lost count...

The removal of her uterus, for sure. As Roxanne was considering if she even _wanted_ children or not, too young to really know, the option was taken from her. Anything of even slight inconvenience and individuality is quickly thrown away, just like her hair.

Both her eyes, all her limbs and joints, pistons and _guns_ where a pulse once was.

Speaking of, the replacement of her _heart_. Still pumping organic blood but ensuring she can push herself harder and faster than any other human. Tear herself apart, if they really wanted her to. Not if she _needed_ to, just if they _wanted_ her to.

There was maybe something with 'muscle and bone lace'? Roxanne doesn't know, not always understanding the reason behind it, and all of it blending together anyway.

There _is_ a ticker in the corner of her vision, telling her it's her birthday today. Or maybe it isn't, because with her metallic body, she's not certain she ages anymore. Roxanne wonders if 16-to-17 is truly the age that everyone becomes fully grown, or if there are precious inches she'll never get back.

"NCV770416, _pay attention_."

It's finally gotten into a time where their tech hasn't rejected the biology it's fused with, and as a result, she must now train to _use it_. She sticks her tongue out at the instructor, though, belligerent. Many of Roxanne's pieces are gone now, but if she's annoying enough, maybe she can escape with what's left of her.

The instructor clicks his tongue at her, then whistles for another boot-lickers attention. "Send in NCM612503 to scare her straight."

Scaring her straight ends up beating her to a bloody pulp.

All her flailing, screaming, and clawing is no match to the senior officers, more droid then men. Whatever organic material she has is left bruised, split, and shattered, while her equipment is all but shredded. It hurts like nothing else, the human body not meant to clash with the backfiring of electronics, shocks wracking through her - charley horsing her veins, tendons, _brain_ \- until she's curled up on the floor.

Her instructor says something else, but she can't catch it. Somewhere in her, she still finds fire to spit.

"Good job, _asshole_. All you did..." she strains, wheezing wetly through her busted lip. Her vision in her right eye has gone red, bleeding into it. "Is spend more of your eddies to fix me."

"Sure," he shrugs, sounding distant, taking a long drag of his cigarette that makes her _ache_ for a better time. "Not without letting you _suffer_ with it for a couple days, though. That ought to teach you a lesson."

Every day, she's reminded what 'disgustingly rich' truly means. People in her home starve while these corpo dogs literally burn riches, and on what? Pettiness? Pride? They don't _need_ to blackmail her family. They never did.

"You can't keep me here forever."

"Can't I? There's lots of ways to turn a profit, V7. Believe me, I can find ways to keep your parents indebted _forever_. You'll be under my employ 'til the day you die," Roxanne hears him threaten, much closer now, his smoke filling her broken lungs. "Or maybe we'll just recycle your body then, too. A little more mods, and we'll be rid that _little-cunt-attitude_ of yours. Puppeteer you around, like a toy-fucking-car."

Her fire dies a little.

* * *

She understood the silence for the first year. Anger and disappointment. Hopes she would think about what she'd done. Having her focus on nothing but her less-than-indentured servitude.

But, now that she's officially 18, her family crosses her mind more.

No visits. No holiday letters. Not even second-hand, passing comments from the corpo's, loosely telling how they're doing; everyone else gets at least _that_.

Roxanne wonders if they always hated her so, to disown her like that.

She belongs to only herself now.

She belongs to only herself now.

She belongs to only herself now.

"Stand at attention, NCV770416. It's your big day today."

Yesterday, Roxanne was still a child. Too young to be considered seriously, know anything about the real world, or make her own decisions. Too _lesser_ of a person to have any agency.

Today, NCV770416 is open for the violent execution of the mentally ill.

Yet somehow, she doesn't have any more agency as she stands among her new unit, neatly - probably perfected to a _science_ \- lined up in their second skins, like cogs in a machine. Their carrier is devoid of much light, reinforced bars over their armored chests, seats keeping their feet off the ground - in case they get any _ideas_ of busting out.

She makes eye contact as best she can with one of her helmeted team members across from her, knowing it's the only ~~humanhumanhuman~~ contact she'll get in a long time, before the carrier enforces her own mask onto her head.

Even in the dark, she can tell when they've approached the madness, gunfire and mechanical screams reaching through the armored walls. Slowly, the ground beneath them folds open.

Was the daytime always so bright?

The safety bar swipes upwards just as her seat shifts smoothly down, shoveling her out into the world, where her feet _crumble_ concrete instead of meeting the metal flooring she's become accustomed to. Through red optics, NCV770416 is directed to their target with practiced mechanicalism -

Practically a _centipede_ of sharp, slicing joints with a human face, screeching in wordless and _inhuman_ octaves. A name does not appear above their head, but a number - Citizen 182479 - dehumanizing them further. The ground before them is littered in a litany of broken bodies.

 _[ Heart rate increased, ]_ a robotic voice speaks into her ear. _[ Administering anxiolytic. ]_

She flinches as something in her suit shifts and _pricks_ her, already feeling the effects of the injection as she becomes... strangely calm. NCV770416 didn't know her suit did that.

_[ Objective: Exterminate. Shoot To Kill. Repeat: Exterminate. Shoot To Kill. ]_

Like clockwork, her and her unit hold up their weapons, and fire a rain of bullets.

It only seems to piss the psycho off, swinging blindly, but slicing through _two_ of her teammates in the blink of an eye all the same. Very narrowly does she duck away from its assault when it races past her, gutting the streets in thin lines on its way.

_[ Target heading for Westside of the street. Pursue. ]_

Obediently, she makes chase, throwing bullets where she can. It rips apart anything and anyone in its path, NCV770416 having to dodge the debris and body parts thrown her way, but - again, she's strangely calm, truly immersed in her role. When she turns the corner to find the cyberpsycho ripping the hinges off an old house, taking harbor there, NCV770416 cocks her gun with no thoughts about who else may be inside.

" _¡Deja a mi hijo solo!_ " _Leave my son alone!_

 ~~NCV77041666666V7V7V7VVVVVVVVVVVV~~ Roxanne halts.

Her target cocoons into a more human shape, flesh snapping back into place to make arms and legs, and there she finds him tucked under the chin of ~~her mother~~ a long haired woman with dark, teary eyes.

"¡Es solo un niño! Un niño que necesita ayuda!" she sobs at her, wracked with grief, speaking in tongues Roxanne begins to remember she can understand; tongues that were once - ~~once? they are _now_~~ \- her very first. "¿Lo matarías por eso? ¡Por favor vete!" He is just a boy! A boy who needs help! You would kill him for that? Please go!

Roxanne stares on, mind drawing a blank, metallic heart conflicted.

_[ Objective: Exterminate. Shoot To Kill. ]_

_"¡Por favor!"_

_[ NCV770416, proceed with the Objective. ]_

In her pause, the target turns with lightning speed and lunges at her.

They tumble straight back out the door frame as their mother shouts, abandoning her pleas for mercy, and Roxanne _feels_ more than _hears_ her helmet _cracking_ open as she's thrown onto her back. Sudden light pouring into her exposed vision is just as searing as the myriad of cuts slicing into her armor, white and hot and sharp, and - for all her training - Roxanne finds herself only thinking to flex her trigger finger.

Fortunately, the boom of her gun ringing out, it's all she needs. The following stillness makes her stomach drop like freefall, the only sound now being the silent shudder of blades, before the psycho goes limp on top of her.

Even as his mother begins to fill the quiet with her wailing, Roxanne gasps in relief and goes limp as well, eyes wide open while her vision adjusts.

And it's there, above her, upside down, that she sees it.

The sun setting against the jagged skyscrapers of Night City.

The mother's crying and the crowding whispers and the orders in her ear, they don't reach her. The weight of the dead young man on top of her, it doesn't occur to her. The view of her city swims in her eyes, beautiful, leaving Roxanne wondering if there was always _so much_ of it beyond her home.

For the first time in so long, Roxanne feels something stirring inside her.

 _Want_.


	4. make some extra love that i can save for tomorrow's show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't let me catch you slipping.

8 years. Another card-less birthday, another day at her never-ending shift.

She’s gotten decent at it, or as ‘decent’ as they allow her, considering the only requirement is ~~Stay out of the way. Don’t make a target of herself. Don’t act brave.~~ Compliance. For completing her objectives in a timely manner, she’s rewarded with more objectives, and the bonus of keeping her sentience for another day.

Today, her objective is to stand in yet another neat line, though this time less for combat and more for corporate analysis. It’s not like anyone is keeping her in the loop, but she’s gathered that an underling called _Mr. Jenkins_ is going row by row. The first thing she notices is that he’s taller, broad shouldered, strong chinned, cigarette bobbing loosely between his lips; not really someone she’d expect to be an assistant. Nonetheless, he carries a digital notepad, stopping occasionally to scrutinize a prospect, ask a couple of questions, and type something.

She thinks he’ll gloss right over her, and he nearly does, before doubling back and staring down at her. She’s not sure what made her stand out. "...You. What's your serial code?"

"NCV770416."

He welcomes himself into her bubble, squeezing armored shoulders together before shoving entirely, testing. NCV770416 tenses at the touch, but keeps herself fixed, like a statue ~~rather than cattle~~. “How much do you weigh?”

Her boss answers for her instead. “All agents here are adjusted to weigh 400lbs.”

“ _Hefty_ , like the rest, huh? Hm...” Mr. Jenkin’s hums in affirmation, wordlessly documenting that into his notebook. “Do they have any special capabilities? How’s their flexibility? Agility?”

...She doesn't know what that really means, and neither do her bosses.

"They all receive the same training. Our soldiers aren't allowed personal liberties here," he says with a note of agitation. The ever so _tiny_ hint that she might be special, that she might have distinction among the lineup, ~~Roxanne~~ NCV770416 can tell it's grating. _Personality_ is a cause for concern in machines, after all. "Why can't you just produce these weapons for all of MAX-TECH, on mass?"

“I told you. They’re _testy_ ,” he scoffs, disrespecting her superior officer in ways she can only dream of now. “Our modders say the Mantis Blades tend to reject their wearer, but we need some subjects who _won’t_ be rejected to actually find out why and work out those kinks.”

"Sir, I assure you that all our officers are constructed with the _exact_ same mold. It's practically part of the uniform - "

“Then you won’t mind expending a few.”

 _Ah_. He wants test subjects. That’s what this is.

She was foolish to think, for even a moment, that there was something special about her. No one is out there keeping track of her decent work. No one in these walls cares that she is a person of hard work and conviction. What they see first is this _body_ she’s come to resent, and how it can benefit them, her soul coming second or _entirely_ _last_.

For completing her objectives in a timely manner, she’s rewarded with more objectives, and the bonus of keeping her sentience for another day. _Maybe_.

* * *

Mr. Jenkins evidently works as a Project’s Manager for _Arasaka_. Where she lives now, they’re practically royalty, and NCV770416 can certainly feel it with the excess of wealth they put in their testing chambers. It’s medical white in contrast to the dim, dark factory rooms she’s entered adulthood in, with scientists taking note above her in the safety of their spectating rooms.

It’s different here.

“ご気分はいかがですか？” a petite assistant in the room with her asks, decked out in thick armor despite NCV770416 being reduced to her civvies – or rather, a pair of practical sports bra and shorts - for easier trans modifying and movement. How are you feeling?

It takes her a solid moment for the words to register, ~~not having heard Japanese since Rigel~~ Her forearms feel... lighter. Hollow. _Uncomfortable_ , but more because it's unfamiliar rather than painful. Roxanne nods in affirmation, knowing it doesn't matter either way. Like the first time she was augmented, everyone is just here to see if she keels over.

“マンティスブレードをアクティブにしてください。“ Please activate the Mantis Blades.

Like all her mods, it takes a hot second for body to listen to mind the first go around, before the paneling opens and the blades begin to emerge jerkily. It’s just as strange as the rest of this experience, her wrists detaching and hands hanging lower than they’re meant to, in favor of making room for something that feels like it’s _crawling out of her_.

The armored assistant pauses for her colleagues to document the results. Is she doing this right?

Then, she flinches as a panel in the wall – previously seamless, or so she thought – opens to present a stack of cinderblocks to her, dropping them before her before disappearing again. "さて、ブロックを半分に切ってください。” Now, cut the block in half.

She feels the Mantis Blades twitch in anticipation, mind beginning to recognize them as a muscle already. Maybe it’s only because she’s so over-augmented already, but NCV770416 isn’t so sure what the big fuss was about – they’re melding just fine with her, not even a glitch in sight.

Except, when she does as asked, her new lack of weight and extra speed has her arms swinging _farther_ and _harder_ than she’s used to. Straight through the cinder blocks, the ground –

And the assistant.

It’s only when her new Mantis Blades are put away and under a lock that they come to clean her off the floor. The MAX-TAC agent stands quietly, as still as she can, perfectly chastised without needing to be.

~~This is just like Razor Ball.~~

“Yeesh. Don’t know your own strength, do you?” Mr. Jenkins approaches carelessly, though, not even in any armor as he lights a new cigarette. “Well, we can call this a partial success, at least.”

She guesses that’s true. Her body didn’t reject the Mantis Blades, just the skinny young assistants, who apparently is just as expendable as she. Now a litany of _new_ tests can come her way. “Yes, sir.”

Mr. Jenkins lingers beside her, in her peripheral.

...Is he... expecting more of a reply? ~~How many words has she really spoken throughout the years?~~ NCV770416 dares to look more directly at him, confused, only to find him silently regarding her. ~~~~

...Or rather, _eyeing_ her, she realizes. Checking her out. Taking advantage of her exposed skin. It’s not too long before he catches her catching him, finally able to meet her eyes now that her helmet is gone.

He quickly looks away again, _shy_.

"Didn't used to know where your armor ends and your mods begin, you know. I've never seen one of you out of uniform..." he excuses coolly, before taking a long drag, the smell making her near _vibrate_. It's been years and, if anything, her cravings have only grown stronger. "It's strange. You're like a real person now."

"I'm always a real person."

That gets his attentions again, pausing mid-drag, expression lax but eyebrows high. It's the first real thing she's said to him.

Perhaps the socialization is emboldening her, but she wants him to know it. That, if it wasn’t his assistant, it’d be her. That a human person was chosen as a subject for lethal, weaponizing experimentation. That, in the event of failure, he'd be destroying someone. That, for all his money and power, she's just like _him_ at their collective core. _A person._

 ~~NCV~~ Roxanne's too old to expect sympathy, and she suspects he won't lose any less sleep at night, but she wants him to know that that fact is _there_. She dares that, if he's about this life, _then be about it_ ; he doesn't get to sugarcoat it by saying she's only 'like' anything.

Jenkins smiles gently around his cigarette. “What’s your name again?”

"NCV770416."

"Not that. Your _actual_ name."

Roxanne pauses.

To her family, she isn't even a Velez these days. To the corpo's, she's nothing if not a good tool, which she isn't. To Arasaka royalty... what does it matter anyway?

So, Roxanne opts to not say anything, wanting to keep it to herself. If she's nothing to nobody, she'll belong to only herself now. Her name is _her's._

Apparently, he thinks that’s funny, chuckling. "Your commanding officer warned me you used to be a trouble-maker. How old is this _person?_ Can I get that, at least?”

"I’m twenty-four today." Not that it’s necessary to specify _today_ , but - she still makes a point of saying it, perhaps out of spite.

"Oh? Happy Birthday," he says, though she doesn't want it, not from _him_. When she doesn't return the sentiment with gratitude, Mr. Jenkins’ grin only broadens, a hand coming for her face –

But Roxanne flinches for nothing, Mr. Jenkins boldly tipping her chin up with his thumb and forefinger, ever so gently like she _didn’t_ just cut a poor woman in half. It’s not an unkind touch as much as it’s... just a touch. For the sake of touching her. For the sake of _admiring_ her.

"Consider this Arasaka's gift to you."

...It's the first in a _long time_ that she's treated as... more than a defected object. A tool that doesn't benefit. A document of endless faults to be hammered out. Instead, right now, in this moment, she's a _woman._ Being flirted with. By a man.

A grimy _corpo_ man, climbing his way through the ranks, looking to hoard his own cash like the dragon he is.

...She smiles back, despite that, not disliking his admiration.

* * *

When they take her back for a test-run in the field, there's less subjects that return with her, but most importantly - they forget the bag over her head, or the powered-down helmet, or the blacked out windows. It's some innocent thoughtlessness from people who aren't her bosses, who don't practice this protocol like religion, who don't know the risks. A little _slip_.

They _forget_.

Her heart is racing with opportunity as she takes in whatever details she can from the long trek back into the facility. Every scratch or discoloration of the near-identical hallways. Counting the left's and right's she takes. What security is where.

The keycard Mr. Jenkins has access to.

There's whispered chastising on her bosses part, ensuring that this mistake won't happen again. Just a little slip.

Roxanne spends that night going over her self-made map in her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how bout that episode 2 of Night City Wire, huh?
> 
> (for clarification, Mr. Jenkins is slightly younger here, not having been promoted as a big boss just yet. have no clue if it's accurate and something tells me cdpr isn't gonna care to clarify the entirety of Mr. Jenkins career, so)


	5. i need something bigger than the sky, hold it in my arms and know it's mine

It's her last day in Arasaka's ivory tower, only one of many.

There's a part of her that wonders if she should mourn it. They offer her more freedom here, Roxanne allowed to be out of her heavy armor, make small-talk with the instructor's running tests, eavesdrop on middle-manager's having mental breakdown's...

But, today, it'll be her last day as MAX-TAC too.

So long as she times this right. When the sun drowns into the skyscrapers and there are fewer employee's, it's not long before the guards take her away again. They're not risking Arasaka employee's messing it up anymore, and it being her last night, this will be her last opportunity as well.

After they're done administrating their final experiments, instead of going straight to her superior, Roxanne hunts her way up to an office that has ' _Author Jenkins_ ' imprinted into the door.

" _No, Stout_ , I'm not going to be sharing any trade secrets - " When she opens the door, he's sitting on his desk, phone in ear, sleeves rolled up, tie undone, working overtime. His eyes widen and his words trail as he catches sight of Roxanne in his doorway. "I... Unless you can come to me with a _damn_ good offer, I don't want to be getting any more of your calls, got it?"

Not just another Thursday, not for Jenkins.

Not waiting for his permission, she steps in, allowing the door to slide close behind her. Allowing them to be alone, together.

"...Listen, I'm... busy. _Don't call back_ , Stout."

As he plucks the ear-phone from his head, Roxanne takes the opportunity to scan the room. The keycard is thrown half-hazardly on a stand, right by a geometrical couch. She commits it's placement to memory, before stepping closer to Jenkins, closing the distance.

He's seemingly undeterred.

"You're a sneaky little thing, hm?"

When he moves to stand, taller, closer, her hand quickly finds his shoulder and forces him back down. She sucks in the shock in his eyes, the slip in his composure, the _little power_ he gives her.

“I’m not a _thing._ ”

But, like any addiction, it's short lived. "...Well? Is this where you kill me?"

Right now, she's probably touching the most expensive fabric she's ever gotten in contact with. Her metal fingers stroke over its shoulder pad, following it's stitching, feeling no texture, going for his neck.

Then, Roxanne tips his chin, like he did her.

His anxiety melts into a soft grin.

Their mouths collide as she straddles him, and Roxanne tries not to think of how she missed the opportunity to kill him. Roxanne tries not to think of what this would feel like with her long-mourned flesh. Roxanne tries not to think of Rigel.

Instead, she thinks of the sun hitting the jagged edges of Night City.

* * *

She has only the keycard, hidden within her sports bra, under the cocoon of her armor. No knife or screwdriver. The mantis-blades shoot too long.

Roxanne stares into her reflection at the MAX-TAC facility washrooms, watches the tremble in her shoulders, knowing what she has to do. The keycard is useless if she can't remove the tracker lodged into the back of her neck.

She grounds herself into the thought that this is _real_ , and it's now or never. Roxanne is _going_ to leave. When she does, she's coming for the entire city.

Roxanne is used to having so little.

But what Roxanne wants is **_everything._** A future that is _greater_ awaits her.

If she's not willing to rip out internal wiring to do just that, then maybe she _deserves_ to stay here, wasting away as nothing more than the a poor, underprivileged, piece-of-shit _nobody_ they think she is.

Her fingers dig harshly into the plate at the back of her neck, struggling with squeezing her digits into the seam. When she manages, there's pain like _muscles pulling_ as she _yanks, and yanks, and yanks_ , but no blood.

No fail-safe alert either, to warn her superiors. Roxanne's gotten this far without a single soul having a single clue.

A screw squeaks in protest as she shoves her free-hand _into_ the back of her neck, feeling through a series of wires in hunt for the tracker. _Fuck_ , she hopes it's not fused with her spine or something; she can't escape if she's paralyzed.

Her fingers brush it; a thick, palm-sized, plug-like device.

Roxanne takes it in a handful.

Braces herself.

And, with everything she has, _pulls_.

She's unable to bite down the _scream_ through her teeth, feeling the flesh tearing, wires snapping, sparks flying. It's _really fucking in there_ , firing off whatever muscles are left, and Roxanne honestly worries if this could reach her brain and induce a _seizure_ \- but she can't stop now -

It pulls free from her body, a numb kind of relief hitting Roxanne as she quickly rips off any stray wires attached, _slams_ it into the counter, and **_crushes it_** to pieces.

It's light dies under her palm with a pathetic whir.

...Still no alert. She laughs as her neck muscles continue to twitch, a little breathless, a little _unhinged_.

Just as she's wrestling her collar open to reach the keycard, the entrance door to the washroom slides open; it makes Roxanne's skin jump, but she knew it was bound to happen. Inside these walls, there is no _true_ privacy.

M6125. Senior officer. He hasn't aged a day, in all this time.

He stands in stunned silence as he takes her in, and Roxanne replies in kind, glaring him down in the reflection. It's pointless to threaten or warn him. It's pointless to explain herself. She'll sooner _drop dead_ before anyone here catches her _begging_.

His parted lips harden into a frown.

No, there's not an ounce of sympathy left in any of these people. It's been _replaced._ They all may call themselves cops, but there is no justice. No saviors. Not here.

Just loyal machines and systems, that'll never let her go.

Roxanne treats him like anyone else she's seen in the street, for all these years. A name does not appear over his head.

_[ IN MY WAY ]_

His hard grip comes to her shoulder, lightning fast, meaning to apprehend her - but Roxanne gathers her strength and _flips him over_. Dislocating his own shoulder, head first into the sink, thick back shattering the mirror and wall, until it all _cracks and crumbles_ in a chaos of noise. As he lies there, it's sickeningly _easy_ to bring out her mantis-blades and pierce his head, a quick and efficient, in-and-out stab to the brain.

It's more than he's ever given her. He ought to fucking _thank_ her.

But Roxanne has been too _loud_ in here. It's probably what attracted his attention in the first place, and it won't be long until they corner her in, so she turns heel -

_This is her moment._

\- and begins _darting_. Out of the washroom and throughout the facility, passing confused and curious faces she's committed _she'll never fucking see again_ , pushing her augmented legs and heart to their extent. For _her_ benefit, for _fucking_ _once_.

Roxanne imagines that greater future just ahead of her, and _reaches_ , chasing.

It's when she uses the keycard on the first door, when they realize _what it is she's doing_ , that all hell breaks loose. The loudest alarm she's ever heard in her life rings, the walls wash out in a red light, _immediately_ she can hear the march of her former fellow agents, coming for her.

" **EMERGENCY, CODE RED: AGENT OUT OF BOUNDS. REPEAT. EMERGENCY, CODE RED: AGENT OUT OF BOUNDS -** "

Roxanne repeats her self-made map in her head, like a mantra, like a prayer.

A barrage of bullets begin to chase after her, gaining.

Many MAX-TAC agents, some she thinks she's worked with, throw themselves at her. Ricochet their shots off her. One even takes grip of her left blade, trying to detach it from her arm, rendering it unable to fold back in. Each door, there's a small army following her, prepared to wrestle her into submission.

It's the longest night of her life. Amidst the havoc, she has to look out for destination marks, has to trust that she remembers the way right. Roxanne can't second-guess herself now.

And so, she feels no hesitance as she cuts them down too. No sympathy as she slices off limbs and heads. No regret as she spits blood she doesn't know is hers or theirs. It's something like instinct, or possession, or _crazy_ , how numb she feels.

There's _danger_ in her desperation.

No apologies either as she reaches the final door in her self-made map, having garnered herself a limp, busted face, a couple broken ribs, a blade dragging behind her, and a pile of broken bodies in her wake. She was _right_. She remembered the way.

For a brief moment, she wonders if her time here did any good. If her work paid her families debt. If she really did her best to take that duty on, like her parents taught her.

But Roxanne knows she never will, and _doesn't care_. Because she doesn't do it in the way they want.

With a toothy smile as she trudges the final stretch, she doesn't do it in the way that's _selfless_.

Moonlight pours over her as the doors part. Cool air, balm against her wounds.

True to it's name, Night City looks even better at night.


	6. well, crud

As she limps on, breath feeling ragged inside her lungs, dragging her broken blade behind her, the call for her capture grows distant.

Those still out in the night are smart enough to only look on, or clamor out of the way, as she passes them. Rather than feeling like coming home, Roxanne feels distinctly like a lion - bloody-mouthed and heavy - entering a den of meerkat's. Leaving barren metal and entering the neon jungle, she knows she's not in the clear yet. The hounds will regroup, label her a cyberpsycho, and chase her to start the process all over again. She can't run like this. She needs a _doctor_ \- someone discreet.

During her drag, she scans the parameters. The occasional neighborhood of tent's, like in Santo Domingo. Closed food stand's, with records of weapons smuggling. 'Misty's Esoterica - '

_[ Suspected of back-alley medical activity ]_

A ripperdoc.

She picks her limp up into a hop.

A dirty-blonde woman stands at the front desk, not looking up from her magazine, "Welcome to Misty's Esoterica. Just letting you know we're close in ten minutes - "

When she does look her in the eye, she immediately to the floor, hiding under her desk.

It gives Roxanne permission to pass her entirely; through the backdoor, out the shop again, stumbling down a short flight of stairs - _whoozy_ , she realizes, like vertigo. When she enters, yanking the gated door open with perhaps too much force, the man in question has his back to her as he scrubs down utensils -

[ **SCAN RESULTS:** ]

[ **SERIAL CODE** : CITIZEN NC607016. **AFFILIATION** : CIVILIAN. **WARRANT** : NONE. ]

No warrant for his arrest. NCPD has more important things to do, giving him slack. A quiet little unmarked alley as an office. A nobody professional who isn't worth searching.

_He's perfect._

"Gee, Misty, what do I pay you for?" the man says, not turning around. "Sorry, bud, we're closed - "

When he does look over his shoulder, he spins around with a start, pressing himself back against his desk. She catches him grabbing for his scalpel behind him. _It won't protect him._

"Ci̢tize͜n ͢ŅC͟6070̨16̶," she rasps to find static lacing her vocals - probably from when she screamed, her throat sore. _Feeling_ is only just now coming back to her, adrenaline dropping. Now that she's standing still, is her dizziness getting worse...? "Yo͢u͢'r̛e ͝a d̡o͝c͢to͟r?"

"...Uh - Sure."

" ** _F_** ** _̰ͯ̑ͧ_** ** _I_** ** _̫̬̞̰̮͒̑ͨ̾̓_** ** _X_** ** _͚͎̞͚͔́͋ͮ̒_** **_̛̤͇̹͍͉͖͕ͭͬ_** ** _M_** ** _́̽̽̾͌͒ͦ_** ** _E_** ** _̞̥̐ͬ̊̃̎_** ** _._** ** _̛ͮ͛̉̉̆"_**

The floor rises to smack her in the nose.

* * *

Um.

This is a prank, right? A half-uniformed, sparking, twitching MAX-TAC agent _didn't_ just burst into his office and threaten him, before full-on face-planting onto his floor. _Haha_. Very funny, trying to give this old man a heart attack. Misty is missing his birthday by a couple months, though.

But Vik stays firmly planted where he is, waiting for the lady to get up and reveal herself to be some gonk in disguise, and it doesn't happen. Soon, Misty comes tiptoeing down the steps, and the equal shock in her eye tells him she didn't plan this.

"Well, _crud_ ," he swear aloud, daring to stand and inch a little closer. Yeah, she's nearly still as the dead, save for the occasional muscle spasm. The medic would have to assess her proper, but he can guess it's those _broken wires_ hanging out the back of her neck, flashing and sparking with electricity. She pulled _something_ \- or a _lot_ of things. "There some cyberpyscho running around that I don't know about?"

"I don't think so? They'd call for evacuation by now, wouldn't they?" Misty is cradling the wall, peeking from behind the corner, clearly spooked. "Should I... Call someone? _Is_ there someone to call?"

But Vik can hear a faint echo from outside - a broadcast interrupting the litany of ad's out there. When it reaches his place, the program on his desktop switches to it, lighting up with an alert.

" **EMERGENCY BROADCAST: CYBERPSYCHO ON THE LOOSE.** "

Well, _there it is_. Guess they better hunker down. Damn NCPD, always late with the damage reports. Vik would think they'd put out the message _after_ the ground cops started being picked off, at least, but now MAX-TAC has already arrived on the scene -

Except, the profile that pops up isn't of just any cyberpsycho, but of the woman on the ground in his very office.

The only photo they managed to get of her face is _still_ blurry - because she's in the midst of violence, mouth full of blood, red eyes wide with frantic energy, as she chops another agent - a _coworker_ \- in half with the very Mantis Blades her employers gave her. Vik thinks it's no coincidence that the grainy swipe of her arms happens to obscure her uniform too, hiding her affiliation from the world. Only he and Misty know.

She _ran_ from them, and now they're after her. They're after her and she came to _his_ damn practice, of all places, demanding medical attention.

"RISK FACTOR: **LETHAL. DO NOT ENGAGE.** EVACUATE IMMEDIATE PREMISES. CONTACT YOUR LOCAL LAW ENFORCEMENT IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION ON THE WHEREABOUTS OF THE CRIMINAL. REPEAT, CYBERPSYCHO ON THE LOOSE..."

His companion scoots around said criminal to join him in his stun, watching her still picture play, letting the warning drift throughout the room. "...Vik? What do we do?"

They both look at her lying there. Seeing her now, having _ate shit_ , one wouldn't guess she's a cyberpsycho that ripped her way out of a highly-armored police facility. The ripperdoc's not even sure he can trust that she _is_ ; how much of the truth does NCPD twist to convict whoever they _want_ to convict? She's got the gear, after all. She's one of their own. If she _is_ reduced to cyberpsychosis, it's _their_ doing - and they're _hiding_ that fact, for their own agenda.

He ought to throw her out to the wolves, regardless. Bet she doesn't have an enny to her name, even if she _wasn't_ labeled 'lethal'.

...Viktor is already kneeling beside her and rolling her over, so he can _see her face_ as he's debating denying her. He can tell she's young. Poor out the pocket. _Targeted._ Whoever she is, she came to him, unhinged and desperate but crying for help - like any other patient.

Damn his bleeding heart.

"Grab her legs. Help me get her in the seat."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> decided to just combine two of my fics bcus i found it awkwardly disjointed. here u go


	7. a proper streetkid

She's been on his table for nearly a month now. A month of having to hide his business with a wanted criminal inside it. A month of Victor stewing in his anxiety, waking up every morning with the thought that he'll come into work that day, and find himself apprehended.

In retrospect, they gave up the search rather early for an officer of the law, but it was long enough to _annoy_ the ripperdoc. More than once, he's entertained the thought of throwing her out, and leaving her to her own devices.

...It's not really worth the guilt, though. _Or_ the risk of her being captured, and snitching on him out of revenge.

Treatment for her has gone far past her pay grade - whatever damage she's been inflicted runs _deep_ \- but an old, sentimental part of Viktor can't find the will to so much as _slack_. Thankfully, it's also gone pretty steadily and without issue, removing her broken bits of tracker as well as any other mods she insists she wants gone.

Removing what he _can_ , that is. He's more knowledgeable in the ways of biology than most ripperdocs, probably, but he's not so good that he can turn _metal back into flesh_. The risk of mods is that once it's cut out, it can't be cut back in. She's left with some pieces that lie dormant in her, useless to do anything but hold her together. If there's anything about this situation that's lucky, it's that she does what's she's told and doesn't complain, like a good patient.

Which he _thinks_ is because she might feel guilty, dumping herself on him like this, without so much as an enny to justify it.

'Least she has a conscious, but it leads to a whole other issue; she won't tell him something's wrong unless it'll kill her.

Viktor greets her the same every day. "Good morning. You going to tell me your name today?"

She doesn't. She never does.

It's really not his job to play therapist, psychoanalyzing her like this. He was Trauma Team, not a _psychiatrist._ However, he can't help her if she doesn't communicate.

"How are you feeling today?" he asks, going over mental checklists in his head as he sits in his swivel chair, turns to his computer, and pulls up her files. Left arm has been fixed, broken tracker has been removed... "Anything I can do to make you more comfortable?"

"No."

Because it's not about comfort, with her. It's just about being _functional_. Because that's what she is - a _function_.

He sighs, wishing he had... just _more_. She's responsive, and cooperative, but otherwise keeps a closed vest. Victor swivels in his chair as he adjusts his hand tool, following the line of her silhouette; where there was once strict stubble, dark brown curls are forming, ever so slightly. It's a testament to how long she's been here.

"I got a question about your medical history here," he starts, knowing he's about to press into something _unpleasant_.

"Yes?"

"You said you _didn't_ have a history of cancer, but maybe, uh... A prolapse? Or you heard something about 'endometriosis'?"

Her brows furrow, seemingly confused, and Vik hopes that's genuine; shit will get _really_ complicated if she starts withholding past grievances. "Not... that I _know_ of. Why?"

"Well, strangely enough, I can't find your uterus," Vik says. "You had a hysterectomy, I just need to know why. It's important to factor these things in."

"...Oh. That was MAX-TAC."

Ah.

Forced hysterectomy. Not the first Vik has heard of it, unfortunately, though usually the perpetrators are _organ harvestors_. Shit.

"Sorry," he nods in understanding, but he's broached the subject already. No backing out now. "That why you left?"

Her brow hardens in her pause, and in that silence, Vik almost feels pressured to take it back. But, now that he's said it, he ought to submit to biting the bullet.

Incredibly, though, she isn't all that angry. Instead, she scoffs, giving him a withering look, "No. _Surprisingly_ , I don't begin and end at my _baby-maker_."

It's about the most attitude she's ever given him. A topic that isn't entirely clinical.

Progress? He's gonna call it progress.

"Okay. So why leave?"

"'Why _leave'?_ "

"Listen. I can only help you if we communicate, right?" he explains, gesturing between the two of them. "But I don't know _anything_ about you, other than some vague medical history, and that you're a former cop and they wanna kill you for it."

But the lady doesn't seem to get it, "You're _already_ helping me."

"I'm keeping you together, but you show signs of physical and mental trauma. You'll _survive_ , but that can translate into more issues down the road. This isn't recovery."

But maybe that's a little accusatory, because she asks something that's _audacity_ kind of makes him double-take, "Why did _you_ leave Trauma Team?"

She's not the first to be nosey; he has a lie already prepared. "You askin' because of my pack? Maybe I stole it."

"It's not just the equipment," she says matter-of-factly, crosshair pupils boring into him, and Vik realizes she's _scanning_ him. The same way an agent would scan a cyberpsycho for potential threats, like their positions aren't swapped here. "No mods. Just the glove. You've got a virgin body, like a _real_ doctor."

He knows she's a cop, but how... _observant_ she is spooks him a little.

...Funny though, how she calls it 'virgin body', like she's been roughing it with all the other chooms. Crass slang from the street. A ripperdoc can be observant too.

"It wasn't... what I _expected_. I'll leave it at that," But he sighs in defeat, not wanting to answer a question with another question, and not wanting to _entertain_ her any further. Call him hypocritical.

Though he just wants to get down into the schematics of it, they don't get into whatever took place. It may be outside his expertise, something she needs a _real_ therapist for, someone he needs to partner with to give her more long-standing treatment. Viktor _knows_ someone - a tye-dyed-hair hippy of a woman, who left the field for similar reasons as him, and now offers her services for free - but he's been reluctant to drag her into this... _legal_ issue.

"I have - a _request_."

Oh? That's a first. The ripperdoc perks up, distracted from his current documenting. "Yeah? What'cha need?"

"It's not really something I _need_ ," she clarifies, and Vik realizes she's unfurling something from her side - a sheet of crumpled paper - to hand it to him. "But something I _want_."

Another first. They're making leaps and bounds today, despite how mysterious she remains.

What she hands him is schematics for an augmentation - purely cosmetic.

Which... _Eugh._ It's awful scary-looking, and besides, she's suffering a blow to her humanity as it is. As a ripperdoc, he can't recommend. "You lookin' to remove whatever flesh you got left, kid?"

"You can put Sleeves on the rest of me, right? And that'll help with the, uh - I don't know, _immersion?_ "

"Well, _sure_ , but... _Eh, I don't know..."_

"I'm going to pay you back for _everything_ you've done for me. Every last enny, _including_ this."

Viktor massages a temple, looking over the sheet again. V is no professional, but there's details on how to _eat_ and _vocalize_. A lot of thought was put into this, despite there being no function. A labor of love.

He finds V twisted in her seat to better face him, uncharacteristic to her usual stillness - she's normally more afraid to take up space, to dip her toes in anywhere he hasn't immediately allowed. Now, instead, she looks more... _her age_. Anxious to jump out. An excitable woman, waiting for the go-ahead.

He scratches at his stubble in thought. Yes, he's been a little reluctant to recommend his therapist friend... but V is a good kid, who came to his clinic, crying for help.

"Sure - on _one_ condition," The ripperdoc opens a drawer, fishes out the card he knows is in there, and hands it to his patient. "Her name is Nessa. You go see how you like her, and I give you a discount."

Crosshair pupils glance over the information, scanning her address carefully. "...I just go see her?"

"A few appointments. That's it. Other than that..." he prompts. "You know, so long as you're paying me, you don't _need_ my permission. You could just... _demand_ I do it."

A shift in her eyes. Something hungrier.

A proper streetkid, when she breaks out into a grin. "I gotta have it, Vikky."


End file.
